Yesterday's Tomorrow
by baited with hypotheses
Summary: Post-Bee. Olive never wanted to be her mother, but in the end, that was who she became.
1. Letters

**Yesterday's Tomorrow**

**i. Letters**

Dear Mom,

Father's trophy stands proudly on the shelf. The plaque reads 'Putnam County Spelling Bee Champion.' Does that ring a bell, mom? Dad always tells me he won because of you. Every time he talks about his Olive – that's you, I guess – his eyes light up and that's how all my doubt disappears. You don't understand how much he loves you, mom. Yes, he loves you. And if he does, then I should love you, too.

But Olive—_mom_…I don't know much about you. You're always gone. I don't know where you go or why you leave us – why you leave _me_ – all the time…I ask Dad about it – about _this_ – but he just dismisses me and tells me that I'm too young. I'm not too young, mom. I know that every single day, when I ask a question about you, Dad cries in his room all night. I can hear him. He needs you, mom. I need you. We need you.

This is my first letter to you, and I want you to know that I'm joining Putnam's Spelling Bee, too. I will experience the joy, the glory and the euphoria you felt when you were a twelve-year-old speller. That is, if you still remember the Bee…. I hope you still remember all these feelings.

Well, I need to go now…I still have to finish reading the dictionary!

Love (I think),

Alessa Barfee.

* * *

Dear Mom,

I won first place in the Bee! You never replied to me, but I do hope I placed the correct address…Are you somewhere in Europe, mom? (God, I hope you are…)

I have a trophy just like Dad's now. It's displayed right beside his. Hehehe. Dad seems to smile more often after I won the Bee. Nationals will be next month, by the way. I hope you can visit me in Washington. :)

There were these cool kids I befriended in the Bee. I met a guy named Corn. A guy named _CORN_! He's got such a cool name! I mean, _CORN_, mom, _C-O-R-N_!!!! He spells cool, too. He goes in a trance and says all the correct letters. Amazing! Then, there was this girl with glasses. She seems so high-strung, but she's kind. She gave me a peanut bar but I had to give it to Corn. I inherited Dad's peanut allergy, if you care. Then there was this kid who says she's the daughter of a farmer in some country I don't recall. Her word was 'syzygy' but she misspelled it. Her mother had a high-pitched voice and she (the mother) was crying all day. The kid – her name was Lisa, I think – didn't really care. We ate recess together.

After the Bee, Corn introduced me to his grandparents. They were both male. But they were…er, interesting. They gave me a can of Coke. His dad's awesome like him and his mother is a really HUGE fan of politics. And Adam Lambert. You know—the guy who won second in American Idol many years ago? She gave me his CD and told me to check his music out. I did, and I think he's pretty good. Along with this letter, I'm sending you his CD as well.

Dad and I ate at this really expensive restaurant but the soup he ate had peanuts in it. He went ballistic at the waiter. We had to call Marigold's – the glasses girl – parents. She and I spent the rest of the time talking about how weird our parents can be.

I don't know how weird you are, though. But you must be weird since you married Dad. Oh, God, don't tell him I said that.

Love (I think),

Alessa B.

* * *

Dear Mom,

I find solace in Ice Cream and my trophy. I lost in the second round of Nationals. Weep, weep. :(( I had to spell 'elanguescence'—is that even a word!? Dad cried, too, but he wouldn't tell me why. Corn said he saw the Nationals on TV and he came by earlier to cheer me up. His name alone cheers me up. Haha. Marigold sent me an e-mail telling me that even _she_ couldn't spell elanguescence. Marigold's so arrogant, sometimes…

Lisa called me earlier and told me her mother thinks I'm like you. Am I? Dad doesn't seem to think so, but he's been so emo lately he just can't think straight. He even began blabbering about some ant farm…

So, mom, what's your favorite Ice Cream flavor? I happen to like plain ol' Strawberry. But any kind of Ice Cream's fine as long as it doesn't have peanuts in it…Or if it's yoghurt. Bleh. Yoghurt tastes like cream mixed with vinegar.

I'm actually beginning to enjoy writing to you, even if you don't reply. I can't really talk to Dad 'cause he's so…urgh. He goes to work 24/7 now, after the whole 'elanguescence' thing. God, it's just a freakin' word!

...

Please reply.

At least _once_.

Dad needs you more than I, mom.

At least listen to _his_ pleas?

--Alessa Barfee.


	2. Mail Day

**ii. Mail Day**

An empty house. _Again_. Dad didn't leave a note or even cook breakfast for me! I didn't really care if I was being selfish, but I just didn't want to burn the house down. Our house insurance didn't cover fires.

I groaned as I glanced at the neon blue digital clock on the kitchen desk. _7:15_. I only had fifteen more minutes to get ready for school. My stomach was rumbling, I didn't know how to cook and I was still in my purple paw print pajamas. Great. Just _great_.

And…I had to be this stressed this early in the morning when it was _Mail Day_. I wonder if Mom actually replied…

I dashed as quickly as I could to our mailbox, ignoring the odd stares our boisterous, egoistic neighbors shot at me. I peeked inside…and there was a letter! I grabbed it, wanting to read Mom's reply…

_TO: William Barfee_

_The Science Club's Newsletter_

_FROM: Jack Jillsonn, head of TSC._

A sigh escaped my lips. It was just Dad's stupid newsletter thing. Of course Mom wouldn't reply; she never did. I guess I was a fool for thinking today was different.

I walked back to the house, sullen and depressed, and threw on whatever garb I could find before running like hell to school.

* * *

Dear Mom,

Do you know what today is? Mail Day. That's right. And guess what? No reply from _you_. I hope you have a conscience so that you could feel all this pain I'm going through.

Because of you, I was late for school again. Why do you keep giving me false hopes on Mail Day!?

"Ms. Barfee. Late, again," said this scary monster before me in his 'frighten the children' voice. The teacher in charge, the stern Mr. Ubernesser, handed me a tardy slip before pushing me towards my seat quite forcefully. He then resumed to talking about Algebra. _X this, multiply x that, equals x blah. _

Classes were often like that—me hiding from the teacher's death glare while other students snickered at me. The only class I truly enjoyed was English. Though our teacher – Mrs. Applemann – hated me like Voldemort hating Harry Potter, I didn't mind. English was the only class I could be myself in, without those stupid classmates mocking me.

And besides, Luke Wilson was my seatmate. Well, it wasn't like he chose to sit there; it was sort of a dare from his cronies. He had too much man pride to back down, so he had to sit beside St. Pierre Academy's resident loser for the rest of the school year.

…Wait. Did I ever tell you about Luke? He is, like, the god of St. Pierre! _Cough_. I mean, that's how other students describe him. I just think he is a regular Mr. Darcy who is searching for his Elizabeth_. Cough, cough_. I wonder who that could be..._Cough, cough_.

Moving on, Dad's gone again. He didn't leave me a note this time. Hm. I wish he'd buy me some take-out 'cause I don't know how to cook. Well, whatever. I think some burnt bread would taste good.

Yeah…Okay. So, happy Mail Day mom. I hope next Tuesday you'll actually reply.

Happy Mail Day,

Alessa Barfee.


	3. How Did We Get Here?

**iii. How Did We Get Here?**

Olive,

I didn't realize Alessa, too, was writing letters to you. I can't say I've been the best of fathers when you left. Until this day, I don't know why you _did_. I hope it's not because I won the Bee and you didn't. Aren't we a little too old for that?

Little Alessa's growing older and older as each day passes. She and Leaf's son are growing closer. Kind of reminds me of you and I when we were kids. I don't know if she has stopped writing to you already. She seems quite happy with her life and it makes me broken-hearted that we aren't there to make her life happier.

I know, I know. I'm acting like your workaholic dad. But I know Alessa's more capable of taking care of herself than me. I trust her that she could make the right decisions in life. She has always had, anyway.

I guess I've run out of things I could say. I do wish you'd come back. The house is lonely except for Alessa – who's distancing herself from me – me, and my ant farm.

Sincerely Yours,

William.

* * *

"DAD!" He was about to put the letter in the mailbox when Alessa came running to him. She had just come from school; her face was flushed and for a minute William thought she was going to hug him.

His arms were open, but she zipped right past him, shouting something like '"He asked me out!" He was a little bit hurt, but he was chuckling, anyway. _Children_. Alessa was growing too quickly for him. He really wished Olive was here. She was better at dealing with this kind of stuff. William had always been socially awkward and maybe, a little bit too _proud_.

"What is it, Alessa?" He entered the flat then took a seat beside the young girl.

"Corn asked me out!" She squealed, in that girlish shriek he could never understand.

"Leaf's boy, huh…Aren't you too young for this? What are you…Ten?"

"…Fifteen, actually."

William then felt guilty, "How time flies…"

"Especially when your parents are AWOL." Alessa snapped, and for a fragment of a millisecond, he thought he was looking at Olive again. They looked so alike – mother and daughter. They had the same dark eyes and hair. The only William trait she had inherited was her aptitude for dance, but Alessa hadn't danced since she was seven.

"Don't get started, Alessa," His voice was rising. William was both angry and sad, but anger got the better of him, "Don't talk to your father like that. Go to your room. No dates for you."

She stomped to her room; her face unreadable.

Then he felt guilt eating his soul. 'Elanguescence,' that was the word Olive had misspelled. _The slow death of a soul_. How apt it had been, for fate to choose that word for her.

* * *

Olive,

I don't think I like you that much, anymore. You're tearing our family apart. It's been three years since I've written to you and I've already given up hope. So I decided to be _happy_. It isn't hard to do, actually, to feel _joy_. But you and father have been sucking up _all _of my joy, it's quite cliché already. It feels like I'm in one of those teen drama chick flicks, except I don't think my happy ending would be possible if Dad continues to be a prick and if you continue ignoring my letters.

I'd _email_ you, actually, if I knew what your email address was.

But, like I said, I've given up trying to talk to you. It's quite hopeless. And, I actually _like_ having hope. But you're making me hate every single virtue God Almighty has to offer humanity.

I don't have anything to say anymore to the likes of you.

Alessa.


End file.
